Harry Potter and the Consulting Detective
by LadyLoki221
Summary: Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. You thought you knew the story, but it all changes when a certain consulting detective and his blogger receive their acceptance letters from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Written with the help of my friend, aftertheveil.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

Sherlock rolled out the parchment over the table, his bright blue eyes scanning the stuffed animals surrounding him. There was a skull in his left hand, which he placed over the map to hold it down. "Alright men," he announced, "Lord Mycroft will be here any minute now. We must not let him get to the treasure! Is that understood?" Sherlock looked around determinedly at the toys, then grinned to himself and pulled his plastic sword from its sheath, which was tied to his belt with a bit of shoelace. He proceeded to announce his plans to his crew, constantly pushing the pirate captain's hat up as it fell over his eyes. He stopped very suddenly, however, as a very familiar creak in the floorboards reached his ears. His eyes widened and he stared, horrified, at the doorway as the towering shadow of his brother approached. "Mycroft," he whispered.

Sherlock immediately dashed to the door and hid himself behind it, waiting for his brother to enter the room. He did, of course, calling Sherlock's name, but the boy was much too fast for him. Sherlock was on his back in a second, nearly knocking him over, and with a battle cry loud enough to ensure Mycroft had an immediate headache. The elder Holmes quickly managed to grab ahold of his brother by his arm, dragging him off of his back and onto his own feet again. "Sherlock!" he snapped, pulling his wand from his pocket and pointing it threateningly at his younger sibling, "I've told you to stop doing that!"

Sherlock merely glanced at the wand and grinned. "You can't stop me, Mycroft. You're still underage."

"Only for a few more months," he growled, "And then you'll get it, I promise you."

"Mother wouldn't allow it. Besides, what would you do to me?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" Mycroft, finally bored with the exchange, put his wand back in his pocket. "Now come on, it's time for lunch."

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock said, stubbornly glaring at Mycroft as if he had just suggested the most repulsive idea.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and reached down to grab his brother by the arm, forcefully hauling him out of the room, despite his protests. Mycroft dragged Sherlock all the way across the house, to where their mother was waiting for them in the dining room. As soon as he let go of him, Sherlock stubbornly marched his way over to his seat and glared at his brother. "Mummy, he's done it again," he whined.

"What has he done, Sherlock?" Violet Holmes questioned, running her fingers through the mess of curls atop her youngest son's head as she passed him to take her own seat.

"He threatened me with his wand," Sherlock said, earning himself a sneer from Mycroft.

"Mother, it was nothing. He knows I wouldn't actually –"

"Mycroft," their mother warned, "I won't have you using that against him, especially not after your birthday. Understood?"

Mycroft glared at Sherlock's smug little grin, then turned back to his mother sheepishly. "Yes, mother."

"Good. Now eat up, I have a surprise for you, Sherlock, when you're finished eating."

"What kind of surprise?" Sherlock asked, while their servants began circling the table and setting their food before them. His mother didn't answer, but only grinned to herself as she began eating. Sherlock stared at her, narrowing his eyes. He noticed a paper cut on the forefinger of her right hand. It was fresh; couldn't have happened more than an hour ago. But what would have given her a paper cut? He glanced up at the clock on the wall, a frown spreading across his face. It was 12:30, and less than thirty minutes ago, the post would have arrived. "It's my letter," he finally stated, making his mother look up at him in defeat. "I've gotten my letter, just like Mycroft did?"

His mother, noticing the hurt in his voice, attempted to console him. "Now, Sherlock, there's no reason to be upset about it –"

"But I don't want to be a wizard!" He shouted, angrily pushing his plate away and dashing out of the room. He ran straight back to his bedroom, his mother calling after him a few times, and slammed the door closed behind him. He locked it, knowing that would at least keep his brother out, and fell dejectedly into his bed. He screamed into a pillow, and finally fell limp, all of the energy drained from his eleven-year-old body.

He laid like that for quite some time, not crying, not moaning in agony or hatred, just simply lying there; Dead to the world. At least an hour had passed before he heard a whispered spell on the other side of the door and the lock clicked open. His mother walked in cautiously, seating herself beside him on the bed. "Sherlock," she whispered, combing her fingers through his hair, "Sit up, please."

Despite his annoyance at his mother, he complied to her request, sitting up and grimly staring at the wall opposite them.

"Would you like to tell me why you're so upset about this?"

"I don't want to be a wizard," he muttered.

"Why not? I'm a witch. Your brother is a wizard. Even your father was a wizard, Sherlock."

"And what good did it do him?" Sherlock snapped.

His mother stared at him for a moment, a strange combination of shock and concern crossing her features. "Sherlock, don't speak of your father that way. He was a brave man."

"And he went and got himself killed by –" He stopped there. If his mother had ever taught him anything, it was that he was never to say _that_ name aloud.

Visibly shaken by her son's petulance, Violet quietly pulled the boy onto her lap, hugging him tight. "Don't think about that, Sherlock. You're too young to understand."

"Mummy," Sherlock whined, pushing himself away from her embrace so he could look her in the eyes. He really detested the way she coddled him with constant physical contact. "You _know_ I could understand!"

Ignoring his obvious hatred for her motherly caresses, she ran her fingers through his hair once more. "Sweetheart, if I could explain it, I would. But those were dark times. We won't speak of them again unless we have to."

Sherlock glared at her. He knew his father had once served the darkest wizard of all time, but he never understood why. He had spent countless hours searching his father's old study, but of course, his mother always caught him in the act. He could never learn enough about the father he barely knew in order to make the one simple deduction he craved for. "I don't want to be a wizard," Sherlock stubbornly insisted, "I'm going to be a pirate."

Violet couldn't help the smile that graced her lips in that moment. "A pirate?" She asked, "Sherlock, you know that's not reasonable."

"I don't care. I don't want to be like father and Mycroft. I want to be different."

"Alright, how about this; You go to school for just one year, and if you decide that you don't like it, you can stop and become a pirate. How does that sound?"

Sherlock considered this for a moment, then turned to look his mother in the eyes again. He could tell from the way she smiled at him that she wasn't quite as serious as he would like her to be, but he also knew that he would easily be able to talk her into keeping her word in the end. "Okay," Sherlock muttered, refusing to show her that he was at all pleased with this compromise.

His mother smiled and placed a gentle (and not altogether unpleasant) kiss on his forehead, before setting him back down on his bed. Before leaving, she pulled an envelope out of the pocket of her dress and placed it on the bed beside Sherlock. She gave him one more smile, then left him alone to brood over the coming year, which he assumed would be hellish.

It was a normal morning in suburban London. An occasional car passed on the street, but otherwise it was quiet. A young boy was sleeping peacefully in his family's flat that he shared with his mother and sister. Little did he know that that was all going to change.

"John!" shouted a woman's voice from downstairs.

The boy, named John Watson, rolled over in his bed and opened his eyes slightly. The sun was only just over the horizon.

"John, get up and help your mother!" the woman's voice shouted again.

John groaned and sat up, rubbing his hazel eyes to wake himself fully.

"I'm coming Mother!"

John shuffled over to his dresser and pulled out some trousers and a shirt. After pulling his shirt over his head, he fixed his sandy hair in the mirror. Taped to the mirror was a picture of his father. When John had been 8 years old, his father died. His father, a marine, died during routine training exercise. It had been explained to John as a freak accident.

John pulled on his shoes and rushed downstairs to his mother, who was helping his sister Harriet get ready for the day.

"You called Mother?"

"There is some money on the table," Rebecca Watson said, motioning off to her side. "Do you mind running down to the market and getting some milk?"

John nodded, grabbed the money from the table and headed out. The cool air felt refreshing on his skin, but he knew it would not last. The sun was rising, and so would the temperature. John turned the key and heard the satisfying click of the bolt turning when a blood curdling shriek was emitted from inside the building.

"Mother!" screamed John.

The lad fumbled with the key for a second before yanking open the front door. John rushed into but paused when he saw the scene before him. Harriet was sitting at the table, stroking a large owl while his mother was passed out on the floor. The owl turned its head toward John before taking off and flying out the open window. John hurried over to his mother and helped her into a seat.

Harriet walked over to John and pulled lightly on his sleeve.

"John, letter."

John looked down at his sister, who was holding a letter that seemed to be made from what appeared to be old parchment. Taking the letter from his sister, John saw that it was addressed, in emerald ink, to him. John opened the envelope and pulled out the letter.

Dear Mr. Watson,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Before John could read any further, his mother stirred. Dropping his letter, he hurried to aide her.

"Is the owl gone John?" she asked weakly.

"Yes. It flew off when I came in."

She let out a soft sigh and leaned forward, resting her head on the table.

"Mother, the owl dropped a letter," John whispered, picking the letter up from the floor. John glanced at his mother, who still had her head on the table.

"The letter was addressed to me," he continued, and still she remained motionless.

"It is addressed from a place called Hogwarts."

John watched as his mother pushed herself up from the table, and slowly turn toward him.

"John, there is something that I haven't told you. Your father, he was a wizard. I found out in his will. In it, he told me that you would be a wizard to, and Harriet a witch."

John stood there, soaking in the information. His mother stood up and gave him a hug.

"Are you okay John?" she asked timidly.

"Okay? I've never been better," John said with a ridiculous grin on his face. "I'm a bloody wizard, how could I not be okay?!"

His mother smiled and hugged John closely. She looked over toward Harriet who had a confused look on her face.

"Are you okay honey?"

"Does this mean I can turn John into a frog?"

Both John and his mother laughed.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: During the writing of the first chapter, there was a bit of a typo in John's section. At the point where he takes the money off the table and leaves the house, the typo had left out the "picks up the money" part, therefore allowing John to leave the house with the entire table in hand. Upon editing this, an ungodly amount of laughter ensued at the image of eleven-year-old John simply walking out of the house with a table, also in a rage, because let's face it, Martin Freeman's personality in an eleven-year-old body was too good to pass up. Because of this mishap, there will probably be some sort of table related joke in just about every chapter, simply to fulfill our need for ridiculousness.

Also, thanks for the reviews on the last chapter, they mean a lot!

**Chapter 2**

Sherlock miserably held onto his mother's hand as they marched through the long, narrow street that was Diagon Alley. It was a boring, dull, and unnecessarily loud place, and he didn't like a moment of it. Today was the day the train would be taking him away from his home in Sussex, and he couldn't have been happier; if it weren't for the fact that his brother would be accompanying him, and he would be forced to use magic. Nevertheless, he put on a bit of a show for his mother, in the hopes that upon his return, she would allow him to pursue his real dreams of becoming a pirate.

They stopped at far too many stores, all of them just as busy and loud as the street outside. Sherlock soon found himself in possession of the best school supplies money could buy, along with a wand, a few pockets full of galleons to take with him, and brand new robes. Mycroft bought entirely new things as well, and Sherlock scowled at the way his mother seemed to have a never ending supply of galleons. Meanwhile, as he was being fitted for his robes, he watched another young boy enter the shop. He was a bit shorter than Sherlock, and he seemed very out of place. He was nervous, Sherlock could tell, by the shaking of his hands and the sweat on his brow. Sherlock made a quick deduction; He was muggle-born.

As the boy was fitted for his robes, Sherlock studied him further; It was the only thing to keep him occupied throughout his own fitting. The boy had sandy blonde hair and dull, hazel eyes that seemed, at the moment, sad. They were anxiously flitting all over the shop, finally deciding to settle on his mother, who seemed equally out of place. Where was his father? Late? Absent? Dead? Sherlock couldn't immediately tell, but based on boy and his mother's lack of knowledge of the magical world, he assumed the father must be a muggle as well. Sherlock's own mother, had she deduced this about the boy, would have turned her nose up to him. She didn't care too much for muggle-borns or Mudbloods, but they all seemed perfectly alright to Sherlock, especially this boy. He seemed terrified, and Sherlock almost sympathized with him. He didn't, of course, because that would require sentiment, and sentiment is a chemical defect that is always found on the losing side. Mycroft had taught him that a long time ago.

Sherlock was soon being pulled out of the shop by his mother, his new robes tucked under her arm, and Mycroft busily packing his own in his trunk. Next, it was off to find a pet, as his mother had adamantly insisted that he should have some sort of companion with him. As they passed Eyelops Owl Emporium, Sherlock's eyes landed on something in the window. He stopped walking and stared at it, tugging on his mother's hand to stop her. Violet Holmes backpedaled to follow her son's gaze into the shop, and she smiled broadly. "Would you like an owl, Sherlock?"

"That one," he stated, pointing at the barn owl that sat in its cage in the window, preening itself. It was an elegant bird, with bright feathers and even brighter eyes. It looked at the boy as he stared at it, cocking its head slightly to the side. Sherlock smiled and looked up at his mother expectantly. She smiled in return, and quietly pulled Sherlock into the store. Ten minutes later, they were walking out of the store, Sherlock with a birdcage held up in front of his face. "I'm going to name him 'Billy,'" Sherlock decided, beginning to walk ahead of his mother in growing excitement over his new bird. He was only excited about it because having Billy with him meant that he had someone to talk to. Therefore, he wouldn't actually need to make friends, which meant he wouldn't have to waste his time with tedious conversations with people he couldn't care less about.

Soon after, Sherlock was crammed in the backseat of a muggle cab, wedged between his mother and Mycroft, with Billy's cage sitting on his knees. The ride to King's Cross Station was relatively short, and when they arrived, Sherlock was beginning to feel slightly better about the entire situation. He took great enjoyment out of watching the idiot muggles pass by the entrance to platform 9 ¾ without so much as a second glance. When they approached the platform, a family of redheaded children and their mother were already waiting to go through. A boy with messy brown hair was also with them, and he seemed to be about Sherlock's age. He didn't seem to know what he was doing, but when the twin redheads demonstrated what to do, he did so without a problem. Immediately after, the last redheaded boy went through, followed by his mother and sister. Sherlock glanced up at Mycroft, who seemed to have been scowling at the family the entire time. Sherlock sensed that he probably knew the older boys.

"Who were they, Mycroft?" He asked, curious to know what it was about them that had bothered his brother.

"The Weasley family," Mycroft droned, "Purebloods, but they don't act like it."

"What's so bad about them?"

"Don't concern yourself with them, not even that first year, and especially not the twins." Without another word, Mycroft turned to their mother and smiled. "I'll see you at Christmas, then, mother."

Violet smiled at her son and kissed his cheek. "Of course. I'll be expecting both of you on the train home. Watch after your brother, Mycroft."

Mycroft nodded and smiled at her once more before gripping his trolley more firmly and racing towards the wall between platforms nine and ten. Sherlock made to follow him immediately, but was stopped by his mother's hand on his shoulder. "Don't think you're leaving without saying goodbye to me, Sherlock," she teased, leaning down to press an overly affectionate kiss to his cheek. Sherlock scowled and pushed her away, blushing and disgusted. Violet only smiled and ran her fingers through his hair. "Have fun, sweetheart. And please try to stay out of trouble!"

"Yes, mother," Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes. He then ran towards the wall, closing his eyes as he passed through it. Mycroft had been waiting for him, and for a moment, Sherlock was horrified by the prospect of having to sit with his brother for the entire train ride to Hogwarts. Fortunately, Mycroft could see the panic on Sherlock's face.

"I'll be sitting with friends, Sherlock. Sit wherever you please, but do try not to make too many enemies just yet." And with that, Mycroft was marching off to his own compartment on the train. Sherlock rolled his eyes again and made for the back of the train, hoping not too many people would be sitting back there. Sure enough, he found a compartment all to himself, and settled down, pulling one of his textbooks out of his trunk. As he did so, he glanced out the window once more, scowling at all of the sentimental goodbyes that were happening on the platform. Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes landed on a familiar face. The boy from the robe shop; The one with the sandy hair and an anxious expression on his face. Sherlock watched with curiosity as the boy said his farewell to his mother, almost catching the boy's eye for a moment before quickly turning away. Feigning a sudden disinterest in the boy, Sherlock quickly returned to his book.

For a long while, Sherlock sat in uninterrupted silence, content with the comfort of his book and nobody to bother him. That is, until a soft knock at the door interrupted him. Glancing up from his book, he noticed the same young boy with the sandy colored hair that he had seen in the robe shop. The boy sheepishly poked his head into the compartment and smiled at Sherlock. "Hello," he said, "Do you mind if I join you? All of the other compartments are full."

John eagerly pulled on his mother's hand as they hurried down a back street. With them was a Ministry of Magic official, who was grinning at the young kid's eagerness. He worked in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, and had the job of Muggle and Muggle-Born relations. He had previously met with this family twice, in which he explained the how he was there for their assistance in buying John's magical equipment and getting him on the Hogwarts express.

"Are we there yet?" John asked with a note of impatience in his voice.

"Just a little longer, at the end of this street," replied the official.

John let out a laugh and released his mother's hand to run ahead. Never had he been this excited, and the day was only beginning. As John reached the corner where the dingy pub was located, John turned back toward his mother, who a chatting with the Ministry official. John couldn't remember when he had seen his mother looking that happy.

The two adults eventually reached the point where John was waiting, tapping his foot impatiently. The Ministry official pulled open the door and motioned for the mother and son to enter. The inside of the pub was as dark and dirty as the outside, and yet it had a warm, homey feel to it. The bartender looked up at the sound of the door closing. "Ah, Frederick, how are you?" the bartender asked with a wide toothless grin.

"Sorry Tom, Ministry business," the Ministry official said while motioning to John and his mother.

Tom the bartender nodded and turned back to the glass he was cleaning.

"Follow me," said Frederick. John's mother took John's hand and they followed Frederick through a small arch to a brick wall. John heard some tapping on the bricks when suddenly the bricks started to move, eventually forming an arch. Through this arch John could see a cobbled stone street packed full with people wearing long cloaks and pointed hats. "Welcome, to Diagon Alley." John looked up at Frederick, who was grinning. "Alright, first stop, the Bank."

Frederick took off at a brisk pace, and John's mother grabbed John's hand again, pulling him forward. John wanted to stop and look at every shop, but he knew that they didn't have time, so he hurried along behind his mother. At the end of the street they came up to a large white building surrounded by tall columns. Frederick took them inside and to the front desk. "Mister John Watson would like to make a withdrawal," Frederick said to the creature working the desk.

John wanted to look at the creature, but he knew it was impolite to stare, so he kept his head down. After a minute of waiting, Frederick turned toward a side door and followed one of the creatures. John and his mother followed Frederick through the door into a well-lit cave. In the cave was a cart which they got into. The goblin (according to Frederick) sat at the front and when everyone was in the goblin pushed a lever forward, and the cart accelerated forward.

Wind whipped past John as he tried to catch glimpses of what they were passing, but too soon the cart was slowing down.

"Vault 221," the goblin announced with a bored drawl.

Frederick got out of the cart and helped John and his mother out. They were followed by the goblin who walked up and put a key into the key hole. There was a click, and the door swung open. John's eyes lit up when he saw what was inside the vault; three different piles of coins, one gold, one silver, and one bronze. Frederick stepped in and took out two small bags from his coat pocket, before proceeding to fill them with a handful of each type of coin. He then handed one bag to John's mother.

"We are running short on time, so we will need to split up. I will take you two to get John's robes, and while he is being fitted I will go get his other supplies. We'll meet up after to get his wand."

John's mother nodded and took John's hand. They got back into the cart, and a couple minutes later they were back in the bright, bustling street. Frederick led John and his mother to a shop called Madame Malkin's: Robes for All Occasions.

"I'll leave you here to get John's robes. While doing that, I will run and grab his other supplies. I will meet you both here and we will go get John's wand."

John's eyes lit up at the thought of getting his own wand. Frederick held the door of the shop open to let John and his mother in, before waving goodbye and rushing off into a nearby shop. John turned around, and tried to hold his mother's hand. His body, however, was shaking too much for him to grip her hand correctly. The shop seemed so large and so unusual to John. He couldn't decide on where to look, so he decided to fix his eyes on his mother's face, who smiled down at him. A slightly elderly lady approached the duo. As John looked up at her, something about her smile was soothing.

"Hogwarts?" she asked. John nodded in response. The lady smiled and took his hand.

"Come with me."

John looked up at his mother, who gave him a small push, and he was whisked away to be fitted. John looked over his shoulder to make sure his mother was nearby before putting his arms up to be fitted. As the lady proceeded to measure his arms, John glanced at his surroundings. The shop was filled with a wide assortment of robes. Most were black, but there were some of other colors. In particular, a dark green robe caught his eye. As he continued on down the rack, John's eyes met another pair of grey-blue eyes. The boy had black, curly hair and was staring intently at John. But before John could say something to the boy, John was being turned around to be fitted. When he had the opportunity John glanced back over his shoulder, but the curious boy was gone.

The fitting soon ended, and John's mother handed over some of the curious coins. Frederick was waiting expectantly outside the shop. He took John's hand and they hurried off down the street. They eventually came up to a shop called Ollivander's. Frederick held the door open for the mother and son before following them in. In the shop was an old man with vivid white hair who was helping a young girl with extremely bushy hair and her family.

John took a seat on a bench next to his mother, and Frederick sat on his opposite. As John watched as family interacted with who he assumed was the shop owner, his eyes eventually wandered off to a small side table.

"I like that table," mumbled John. "That's a nice table."

Frederick glanced at John, confused, before looking at the table, but before he could say anything John was called up.

John walked up slowly to the shop owner; something about his eyes was off-setting. The man lifted up John's right arm. A tape measure jumped off the desk and started taking measurements while the old man walked down one of his many isles. The old man eventually came back his arms laden with long, slender boxes.

The next couple minutes flew by as the man, Ollivander, kept putting wands into John's hand and almost immediately taking them out. It wasn't until after ten tries that something happened. A feeling of warmth flowed up John's arm, and sparks shot out the end of the wand, causing John to flinch. Ollivander's eyes lit up and his face broke out in a grin.

"Perfect. Simply perfect. That will be 7 Galleons."

John looked confusedly at his mother, who walked up to Ollivander and handed him some more of the odd coins. Ollivander thanked them, and John was rushed out of the shop by Frederick.

"One final stop," announced Frederick, "and then off to King's Cross." The trio walked up to a shop that was making a lot of noise. As they entered John saw a wide array of animals, including many species of owls. John felt a hand on his shoulder, and he looked up to his mother's face.

"Pick an owl. That way we can stay in touch."

John smiled and looked in all of the cages, until coming upon a small, light-brown screech owl. "This one, I choose this one."

John's mother smiled and handed over some money to the man behind the counter. John picked up the cage, and Frederick led the way out of Diagon Alley, through the pub, and out onto the bustling public streets of London.

A dark blue car pulled up, and Frederick put John's trunk into the back of the car. John sat himself between his mother and Frederick, who took the place of the driver. The trip itself took only a couple minutes and soon Frederick was pulling up to King's Cross. John grabbed a trolley and helped Frederick load the trolley with his supplies. Frederick took the lead, pushing the trolley down platforms 9 and 10.

"Alright, we're here," Frederick said while pulling the trolley to a halt. "Platform 9 ¾."

"What did you say?" John looked up at his mother, who seemed just as confused as John was. Frederick took John's hand and gave him a warm smile.

"Just trust me." Frederick started walking again, this time at a wall between Platforms 9 and 10. One hand pushed the trolley, while the other firmly held onto John's hand. John used his other hand to hold onto his mother. As the wall came closer, John closed his eyes. He waited for the hard collision, but it never came. John opened his eyes, and in front of him was a bright scarlet engine. "Come on, you're going to be late!" Frederick pushed the trolley along the train, looking for one less crowded. He made it to the end before stopping. John helped him as Frederick lifted John's supplies onto the train. "Alright, the train leaves in two minutes," Frederick announced in a low voice.

John turned to his mother, who had tears in her eyes. "John, you be careful out there," his mother said in a raspy voice. "Stay away from trouble, make friends, and have some fun for once."

John stared at his mother, lost for words, before pulling her in for a final hug. "I love you, Mum."

"I love you too John. Don't forget to write." John nodded and got onto the train just as the whistle blew. John stood in the doorway and waved to his mother as the train started to pull away.

It wasn't until the train went around a turn that pulled himself and his trunk into the train.

John walked down the stagecoach, checking each compartment for vacancies. It wasn't until he reached the very end of the train that John found a relatively empty compartment. Looking in, John realized it was the same boy from the robe shop. Mustering up his courage, John knocked on the glass door. The boy looked up from his book, and the grey-blue eyes pierced John's eyes again. Nervously, John poked his head into the compartment and put on his best smile.

"Hello, do you mind if I join you?" John asked, masking any nervousness. "All of the other compartments are full."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: During the writing of the first chapter, there was a bit of a typo in John's section. At the point where he takes the money off the table and leaves the house, the typo had left out the "picks up the money" part, therefore allowing John to leave the house with the entire table in hand. Upon editing this, an ungodly amount of laughter ensued at the image of eleven-year-old John simply walking out of the house with a table, also in a rage, because let's face it, Martin Freeman's personality in an eleven-year-old body was too good to pass up. Because of this mishap, there will probably be some sort of table related joke in just about every chapter, simply to fulfill our need for ridiculousness.

Also, thanks for the reviews on the last chapter, they mean a lot!

**Chapter 3**

John stood there, awkwardly, as the boy sat there, his eyes just over the edge of the book, staring at John quietly. The boy gave a stiff sort of jerk of the head, which John took for a yes.

"Thank you." John struggled with his trunk, spending minutes awkwardly trying to lift it onto the overhead rack while the boy sat silently behind his book. "Do you mind?" John asked gasping for breath as the trunk rested on his shoulders.

The boy rolled his eyes and put down his book. Grabbing the bottom of the trunk, he shoved it roughly onto the rack, in the process knocking John down to the floor.

"Thanks for that," John said while rolling his eyes. The boy didn't respond, instead he brushed his curls out of his eyes and picked up his book. John sat down opposite of him. "I'm John Watson, by the way."

The boy sighed and lowered his book. "I'm Sherlock Holmes," the boy said with a sense of finality in his voice. "Nice to meet you." Sherlock pulled up his book again and turned away from John. John sighed and looked out his window. It was going to be a long trip.

Minutes turned into hours as time passed slowly. A couple times John tried to start up conversation with Sherlock, but he was quickly rebuffed. John even tried talking to his owl, who he decided to name Stamford after one of his friends at home, but John quickly realized it was a one sided conversation. John would notice Sherlock peering over his book at John, and the eyes would fly back behind the book when John looked up. John noticed that the book Sherlock was reading was about pirates, which John thought was unusual for a wizard, but he didn't dare ask about the book.

The one distraction to John's intense boredom was the occurrence of a loud scream and many people running outside the compartment. One person, a small girl with brown hair that was pulled back into a pony-tail, ran into the compartment and slammed the glass door shut. John stared at the girl quizzically, but she determinedly stared at the glass door, her body trembling.

"Excuse me," John said quietly, hoping to not scare the girl. "What happened?"

John's voice seemed break the girl out of her trance, upon which the look on her face said that she realized that she was not alone in the compartment. "A giant tarantula broke out a couple compartments down," drawled an annoyed voice from behind the pirate book. John stared, confused, while the girl nodded quietly in agreement.

"Obviously, the spider, scared, managed to get into her compartment, scared the lot of them and she ran here. But it's been recaptured and your friends are looking for you, so you should probably leave."

At that moment the glass door slid open, which caused both John and the girl to jump in surprise. At the door was a dark skinned girl with long curly hair.

"There you are Molly! They got the spider, and took it away."

The small girl, Molly, nodded quietly and got up to leave. The other turned toward John and stuck out her hand.

"I'm Sally Donovan, by the way."

"I'm John Watson, pleasure to meet you," replied John, shaking the outstretched hand.

The girl smiled and nodded, before turning toward Sherlock, who was still reading his book, and offering her hand. "And you are?" she asked, with a hint of laughter in her voice.

"None of your business," replied Sherlock with a hint of annoyance in his voice.

Donovan's hand shot back to her side. "Fine then, enjoy your pirates, freak." She grabbed Molly by the arm and pulled her out of the compartment, before turning toward John. "If you want, we are a couple compartments down."

John nodded, but did not respond. Donovan frowned, but didn't say anything as she marched Molly away.

"You know, you could have been nicer Sherlock."

Though he didn't respond verbally, John saw a prominent eye-roll from Sherlock in response.

Things grew quiet again for a while, and John fell back into his bored stupor. This time it wasn't broken until mid-afternoon, when someone knocked on the glass door, and an elderly lady poked her head into the compartment.

"Anything from the trolley dears?" she asked.

John, who suddenly realized he was famished, jumped up. However, he quickly realized that these were not the candy that he grew up with. John stared at the candy, utterly perplexed as to what he should get.

"We'll take a dozen Cauldron Cakes, and some Licorice Wands," came Sherlock's voice from the compartment, this time without the harsh tone to it. The lady nodded, and went back to her cart. Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulder and pulled him back into the compartment. "Let me pay for this," he told John with a hint of a smile on his face. John grinned and sat down in the compartment, while Sherlock went out to get the candy. A few moments later, Sherlock returned, his arms laden with sweets. John got up and slid the door closed while Sherlock dumped the pile onto his seat.

"Well, we have no table," Sherlock said, slightly put out, "so this will have to do."

John stood quietly for a second, before walking over and popping open his trunk. He fished through his belonging for a minute while Sherlock stared, perplexed. Eventually, John found what he was looking for and he grinned. With some tugging, he eventually pulled out a small table that was definitely too big for his trunk. Grinning, he set the table down in front of Sherlock and grabbed one of the cakes.

"Let's eat."

Sherlock glanced perplexedly at the table, before shrugging and beginning to set the cauldron cakes and licorice wands on the table. As they sat down to eat, Sherlock watched John from across the table. He had already deduced quite a bit from him; that he was a muggle-born, he had a younger sister, his mother was worried about him, his father was a military man, he was a smart boy (not as smart as Sherlock, of course, but smart enough), and last Tuesday morning, he had tripped and fell down on the kitchen floor. What he couldn't figure out, however, was why he was still sitting here with him. Sherlock had done everything that normally drove people away from him, yet still, John hadn't moved. He was aggravated by Sherlock's attitude, but not enough to leave. Why?

"Wow," John muttered, his mouth full of cake, "This is delicious!" Sherlock continued to stare at him, and John blushed sheepishly. "Sorry, It's just –"

"You're new to all of this," Sherlock stated, bluntly.

"Yeah," John muttered, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "How did you know?"

"You're muggle-born. I could tell because of your clothes, for one thing. And your general perplexity to everything happening around you."

John frowned as he reached for a licorice wand. "Muggle?"

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. "Your parents weren't wizards."

"Oh," John said, frowning again.

"Yes. I also know that your father was in the military, probably dead now, you have a younger sister, she's gay, and she has all the makings of an alcoholic, and you were planning on medical school one day."

At this, John nearly choked on his food. "Excuse me!? My sister is eight years old!"

Sherlock merely shrugged and looked away as he crammed a cake into his mouth. "All the same, really."

John, fuming, glared at Sherlock until he looked back at him. "That's not something you just say to people, Sherlock."

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, genuinely confused.

"Well, it's rude, for one thing."

"Oh, people and their stupid emotions. It's pointless."

John shook his head, deciding to ignore that last part. "Other than the rudeness, though, that was pretty amazing."

Sherlock looked up quickly, narrowing his eyes at John. "Really?"

John shrugged, looking down at his food. "Yeah, I mean…you knew everything about me. Even though some of it was quite…unbelievable."

Sherlock nodded, still staring at John. Just as John was once again growing uncomfortable under Sherlock's stare, the door to their compartment suddenly slid open. A girl Sherlock had never seen before looked in at them. She had an air of self-importance around her, but from what Sherlock could see, there was nothing too special about her. She was muggle-born, very clever (compared to most people), and she was looking for something that didn't belong to her.

"Have either of you seen a toad?" She asked, looking in turn to both of the boys. "Neville Longbottom's lost one and I'm helping him look for it."

"No, sorry," John ventured, a shy smile on his face. Sherlock was still studying the girl.

"Well, let us know if you see one; We're sitting just a few compartments down from here. I'm Hermione, by the way. Hermione Granger." Sherlock watched as she extended her hand to shake John's.

"I'm John Watson."

"Pleasure," she said, smiling at him before looking at Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes," he muttered, cramming another cauldron cake into his mouth and electing not to shake her hand. She scowled at him for a moment before noticing the book that was still sitting next to him on the seat.

"What's that you're reading? She asked, leaning forward to see the cover. Sherlock blushed a bright red and pushed the book behind him.

"It's nothing," Sherlock mumbled, reaching for another cake in the hopes that Hermione would leave.

Hermione cocked an eyebrow at him, but dropped the question and turned back to John. "Well, it was nice meeting you," she said, glancing once more at Sherlock with a faint grin. "Both of you."

With that, she was gone, and Sherlock was left studying John once more. "You should change," he suddenly said.

"Change?" John asked, finishing off the last of the licorice wands.

Sherlock sighed dramatically as he stood to reach for his case. "Into your robes, John."

"Are we almost there?" John excitedly asked, hurrying to the window.

"Obviously," Sherlock drawled.

As the train finally pulled into the station, the students hurriedly piled out onto the platform. The first years were herded off by what Sherlock aptly identified as a half-giant, and led to the edge of a lake, where a number of boats sat waiting for them. Sherlock climbed into the nearest boat, and was soon followed by an awestruck John. A familiar girl climbed in last, crouching down behind John with her eyes glued to the back of Sherlock's curly head. The genius himself stood excitedly at the front of the boat, and pushed the lantern into John's hands. "Sherlock, is it really safe to be standing there?" he asked, nervously holding up the lantern so Sherlock could see.

"John, don't be so dull, have a sense of adventure! We're like pirates! With our own boat!"

"Pirates?" Hermione suddenly voiced from behind them. Sherlock tuned to glare at her, and John cautiously took a step back. "You can't be serious?"

Sherlock took a moment to sneer in response to the amusement on her face, then turned back to the water, propping one foot up on the bow of the boat, and raising his head up with an air of self-importance. John couldn't help but grin as he held the light up for his new friend.

Hermione, rolling her eyes at the boys, merely crossed her arm and sat back. As they drew near to the shore, John stood up on his toes to tell Sherlock, "Land ahoy, captain!" Sherlock looked down at the sandy haired boy, and smiled. He'd never actually had someone to play pirates with, besides those times when he called Mycroft a whale.

They hit the land, and the boys jumped out, followed closely by Hermione. As a group, the first years were led into the castle and up a huge flight of stairs. Sherlock took John's hand and tugged him along as he looked around in wonderment, forcing their way to the front of the group. John accidentally bumped into a boy with blonde hair. The boy looked familiar to Sherlock, but in an eerie sort of way. He narrowed his eyes at the boy, his thoughts racing, when suddenly, it clicked. His father had gone to school with a boy named Lucius Malfoy, a man who Sherlock had seen many times at his own house. From his father's pictures and the visits from the Malfoy family when Sherlock was a child, Sherlock could deduce that this boy was, in fact, his son, Draco. With a roll of his eyes and a tug on John's arm, Sherlock quickly dragged them to the other side of the group, where he found himself standing next to one of the red headed boys he had seen at the train station. Unfortunately, Draco eventually made his way over to talk to the red headed boy and his dark haired friend. With an exasperated sigh, Sherlock grabbed John's hand and dragged him to the back of the group again.

"Sherlock?" John asked, "Where are we going?"

An older woman, with a pointed hat and beautiful robes, was approaching the group. She frowned slightly at Draco, and he quickly moved away from the boys. The half-giant that had led them here smiled at the woman, and said, "The firs'-years, Professor McGonagall."

"Thank you, Hagrid," she replied, "I will take them from here." Sherlock watched the Half-Giant make his way through the giant double doors behind her, then focused on the witch again. "Welcome to Hogwarts," said Professor McGonagall, "The start-of-term banquet will begin shortly, but before you take your seats in the Great Hall, you will be sorted into your houses. The Sorting is a very important ceremony because, while you are here, your house will be something like your family within Hogwarts. You will have classes with the rest of your house, sleep in your house dormitory and spend free time in your house common room.  
'The four houses are called Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw and Slytherin. Each house has its own noble history and each has produced outstanding witches and wizards. While you are at Hogwarts, your triumphs will earn your house points, while any rule-breaking will lose house points. At the end of the year, the house with the most points is awarded the House Cup, a great honor. I hope each of you will be a credit to whichever house becomes yours. The Sorting Ceremony will take place in a few minutes in front of the rest of the school." With that, she left them for a moment to prepare themselves. John turned nervously to Sherlock and frowned.

"Does this mean we might never see each other again after this?" He asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook his head. "John, don't be so melodramatic. Chances are, we'll have a few classes together, and we can visit each other all the same."

"Oh," John, sighed, smiling. "Good."

Sherlock started at this, and glanced crookedly at John. "Do…do you mean you want to talk to me again?"

John nodded, as if it were obvious to his simple mind. "Well, yeah. I thought…I mean, we're friends now, aren't we?"

Sherlock stared open mouthed at John, but before he could answer, the doors to the Great Hall opened once more, and Professor McGonagall was beaming at them. It was time to be sorted into their houses.


End file.
